I pit the lack of mini-rants on the first page!

I’ve been taking commuter rail for well over six years now, and there’s one conductor who causes me to wince every single time I have to listen to him. Here’s the deal: the train I take home that he is on has six passenger cars attached to the locomotive. However, the first stop we make after leaving Union Station has a shorter station platform, meaning passengers can only board or disembark from the last three cars of the train. Here is the announcement the conductor makes EVERY SINGLE DAY leaving Union Station:

Please note the emphasized portion of that. The last time I checked, the phrase “at least” meant “this much OR MORE.” Now, let’s reason this out. Let’s say that you’re in the third car from the locomotive. That means you’d only need to move back one car in order to be able to get off at Cal State. You could conceivably, if you were feeling ambitious, move back at MOST three cars. You could not move back MORE than three cars!

I know, I know…it’s a really minor nitpick, but it drives me nuts that he repeats this day in and day out. None of the other conductors make that mistake. They just say “you must move to one of the rear three cars.”

Why must you torture me so, Mr. Conductor? WHY?!

Some cuntwaffle hacked tvtropes.org. I am not happy.

And I keep not getting tired until late and then I can’t get up in the morning.

But if you’re in the first car, you could move three, four, or five cars and be OK. Thus, regardless of which of the first three cars you’re in, if you move three or more cars you’re guaranteed to be OK. Or, in other words, at least three cars. I’m with the conductor, and in accordance with established SDMB policy, I now think you’re an idiot, I will vote against all of your favorite candidates, and I will lobby to have all your favorite TV shows canceled.

With all the crap I have to do on deadline this week, I get less than 18 hours notice that I (and about ten other people from my office) have got to drive the whole hell way across town for some HR presentation. Why couldn’t the dickwhistle who arranged this come to our office instead? There’s a perfectly suitable room to make the presentation at our facility. Oh, yeah, but I guess that wouldn’t demonstrate how very important he and his time are.

I have to attend a meeting today where some poohbah discusses the latest org chart shuffle and whatever bullshit bingo that entails. What is rantable is that I’m in a purely civilian group that’s being merged in with an “intelligence” group. I’m not happy to be lumped in with waterboarders and wiretappers, and I am tempted to say so, but keeping my job is more important than calling them on their inherent evil, so not only do I have to waste my time, I have to keep my mouth shut.

Fuck you, sciatica. FUCK YOU!!!

And that lady in the Glade candle commercial. U R dum. Who cares where the hell your stinky-assed candle came from? Oh, it came from France? Did they milk the finest virgin bumblebees fed pollen from only the best grapes in Champaigne? Stupid beyotch.

Did I mention that sciatica makes me cranky? Well if I did I lied. It doesn’t make me cranky. It makes me homocidal. I will kill you, stupid non-existant character from a commercial with your stupid Gla–day stink-ass candle. But first-- could you chop off my leg at the ass?

I don’t know why the Glade ads have all been of women lying to their friends and families. I’ve seen 3 so far - please, make them stop!

Listen, noggin. I have taken Benadryl before and you’ve done just fine. This morning, though, after nearly eight hours of Benadryl-induced sleep, you decide that the world looks better at an 80 degree angle to the floor. Grr. I keep tipping over. Stop it! STOP IT!

Desire For Food, you really need to get together with Actual Hunger and synchronize your schedules. I’m trying to work here, and the last thing I need is you tugging at my sleeve and asking for things you don’t need like you’re my kid in the toy aisle:

psst. biscuits and gravy.
Hmm. Do you have Actual Hunger with you? Because you both have to turn your keys at the same time before I’ll go down to the cafeteria.
Well… no. BUT – hear me out – biscuits and gravy with sausage chopped up over the top, and lots of pepper.
Look, I get where you’re coming from, Desire For Food, but you have to have Actual Hunger with you or you’re out of luck.
Hrmph. ALL right. Do you mind if I sing?
Do I mi- … Okay, fine.
Biiiiiscuits and graaaaaaaavy…

Hello, work? I’d like some work to do. As much as I love spending 4 hours a day on the straightdope I would like to be busy earning my paycheck. It isn’t just me either! All of the people around me and at least 1 of the people down the hall need more stuff to do. I am super smart and capable of doing anything you give me, I promise.

Dear Bertolli: I am highly unlikely to buy your frozen, homogenized pseudo-Italian prepared foods because your ads show them driving Italian restaurants out of business.

In fact, I avoid any product or service marketed under the pretense that it wil cost other people their livelihoods.

This is not to deny a certain satisfaction at the thought of certain people becoming jobless.
For instance, the slick corporate analysts quoted in the news as saying that X Company needs to shut down 100 stores and fire 2,500 people to strengthen its market position. I hope you lose your job in a massive restructuring of the market analysis industry.

Fucking canker sore. I bit my lip a few days ago and, as spring turns into summer, as the swallows return to Capistrano, etc, etc, etc, it turns into a canker sore.

Which I bit last night. So now it has a friend.

Which I bit this morning. You cannot imagine the pain.

Dear Gym,

Probably no one, or maybe very few people here are under 21. Why are you playing Miley Cyrus songs? Nobody wants to hear Miley Cyrus. It’s a fucking earworm too, which means I’ll hear it in my head all day. Crap, there it goes again.

Dear Kitten,

We need to have a talk about boundaries. You are adorable, but the following things are NOT cool:

  • Licking the inside of my ears at 4AM. I know you are awake and ready to start your day, but I am usually not yet. Yes, it was cute the first time. It has become less cute since you have been doing it Every. Fucking. Morning. for a week.

  • Shoving your head in my naked crotch while I sit on the toilet trying to take a dump. Considering you also attack the area of my anus whenever I break wind, I am beginning to think you have a scat fetish.

  • Getting up on the dining room table in an attempt to eat food directly off my plate. I buy you very expensive cat food, and it appears that you find it quite tasty. The chicken jalfrezi is my food, and you may not eat it.

You may continue to lick my fingers and toes whenever you feel like it, as well as the toes of any young ladies I happen to bring over, because that helps me get laid. You may also continue to play hide and go seek with me, and attempt to scare me by jumping on me from around corners.

Sincerely,

Your Daddy

:confused:

If you just whooshed me, I commend you! :slight_smile:

If you’re going to send a mass email to the entire directorate warning of a phishing email going around, that was reported to you by an astute employee, don’t include the link to the phishing site when you circulate the message! It was forwarded on by at least three people who have mass messaging authority, and not a single one thought to remove the link?

This happens to me all the time. Quite often, in fact, it involves biscuits and gravy!

Dear state workers who can’t be arsed to do anyfuckingthing correctly-

I hope that you each and every one have serious medical issues involving major surgeries in the coming weeks, and that you are operated upon by surgeons whose conception of a passable job is exactly the same as yours. Fucksticks.

-Incensed

Look, bitch, it’s simple: You need extra help, I need extra money. I’ll show up and do the job and do it so damned well you, like every other boss I’ve ever had, will wonder what you did without me. I know my hair and makeup isn’t done right now. Maybe if I’d had more than 10 seconds warning before this second interview, I’d have thrown on a little mascara. And, if you’d hire me, I’d be able to afford the haircut I need.

Fuck you for jerking me around for 3 weeks when I could have been looking elsewhere.

Note, however that cute is defined as seeing a kitteh do annoying things to someone else. You have much to learn about being a cat servant, Grasshopper.

Bookkeeper - 35-year cat servant